You Picked Me
by singsongsung
Summary: Dawson/Joey, season one orient. "He’s speechless around the girl who’s been sleeping in his bed since before he can remember."


**A/N: **My first _DC_ fic, though I doubt it'll be my last. Takes place in early-ish season one, just a short oneshot. Lyrics and title are courtesy of A Fine Frenzy; a really pretty song. Reviews are love; I really appreciate the feedback especially since this is my first attempt at D/Jo.

**You Picked Me**

_like an apple on a tree, hiding out behind the leaves, I was difficult to reach_

_but you picked me_

_like a shell upon a beach, just another pretty piece, I was difficult to see_

_but you picked me_

_yeah, you picked me_

It's not supposed to be like this. He opens up his closet door and sees her sitting there and for the first time in forever it feels like it's not supposed to. It feels weird and wrong and complicated.

And when she looks up at him with great big, vulnerable eyes, he knows she feels it too.

She licks her lips before she whispers, "Hi." There's something like defensiveness in those brown orbs he knows so well, but her tone is bashful and apologetic.

"Hi," he says back, voice hoarse," and extends both hands to get on instinct. "Come on out of there."

She grips his hands like they're all that's keeping her alive as he gently pulls her up from the floor.

There's one of those moments when they just stand there together, her smaller hands still clasped in his, meeting each other's eyes and looking away quickly, over and over. He doesn't feel like he's breathing and he can hear the shallow way the air is moving in and out of her lungs.

He could kiss her right now and everything would change. But there are a million things holding him back. There's Jen, first of all. There's the fact that they're both kind of angry and he knows better, he knows a kiss isn't going to take that all away. There are his memories, a million of them, in which the girl whose hands he holds is the star. And then there's that last, all-important fact, the one he knows is holding her back as well. The change. The looming change that neither of them wants to face.

Things can start now or they can end now, and he's honestly not sure which is better…and which is worse.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, staring at the floor.

And he says, "No, _I'm_ sorry," even though he doesn't remember who initiated this weirdness between them. It's no one's fault, really, just the evolution of themselves and their joint life. But he takes the blame because he'll do almost anything for her.

"What're you thinking?" she asks, a small smile on her lips. The way her fingers intertwine with his as she speaks seems much too intimate.

He tries not the see the way her smile disappears when he tugs his hands away and turns around, moving to perch on his bed. "I don't know. About a lot of stuff," he shrugs.

Joey smiles again as though she can't help it, sitting cautiously at his side. Her shoulder bumps his lightly and it has greater connotation than ever before. "C'mon, Dawson. You're more articulate than that."

He nods because he is, because she knows him so well. "You and me," he sighs. He looks over at her hand, inching his own toward it until his pinkie finger touches hers. "You and me," he repeats with a sigh. "I don't know what's going on between us anymore. I don't know what we are."

"Yeah," she breathes, unwilling to meet his eyes, and he knows this is tearing her apart. He's avoided this moment for so long and he just wants to keep going. He loves the way things are with her. His best friend, his go-to girl for everything. She's the one thing he's never questioned, never been confused about. And now she's everything he can't define. He, the writer, the kid with the huge vocabulary, is speechless. He's speechless around the girl who's been sleeping in his bed since before he can remember.

It takes some time before he can find words again. After a long pause in which neither of them dare to move their hands, he says: "You're the good things, you know? You've always been right. You're the one person I've never been unsure around. You're the certainty in my life."

His words are simple and factual and kind. They both relax as he speaks, moving away from each other as she shimmies across the bed to the side that's always been hers, and they both lean back against the pillows, glancing over at each other momentarily.

"But," he sighs again after another silence, "you don't feel…the same way?"

She's startled – her eyes fly over to meet his and she looks afraid. He doesn't need a verbal answer, he knows. She feels the same way and she feels even more on top of that.

"Oh, Jo," he says mournfully with an even heavier sigh.

"No," she protests sharply, hiding her face behind her hands. Her words are quiet but firm. "Don't pity me, Dawson, don't you dare."

"I'm not," he insists, matching her tone even though he speaks vehemently. "I don't feel sorry for you, Joey, I'm just scared of losing…us. Is right now the crossroads? It's more or it's less?"

She drops her hands back into her lap and shrugs. "Or it's the same."

"But you don't want that?" he asks carefully, scrutinizing her face.

Joey is all seriousness as she says, "I'd take that a million times before I'd accept that we would have less."

Dawson rubs his temples wearily. "It's just…you are _so many_ things to me, Joey. Everything that's ever happened to me that holds any importance involves you. We've always been friends. We've done everything together. I've seen how falling off your bike and crying for an hour afterward, you've seen me throwing up in the middle of the yard when I had that really bad flu. You eat in my kitchen half the days of the week, we watch the same movies and we argue about the stupidest things. Sometimes…I know you don't want to here this, but sometimes you feel like my sister."

Joey makes a face and idly traces out a pattern on his bedspread. "And other times?"

"Other times we're just friends. Best friends, confidants; we share everything. You sat with me in silence for six hours after we buried my dog when we were nine and I held your hand during your mother's funeral. We sleep in the same bed half the time. All it takes is the right kind of coercion and I'd tell you absolutely _anything_. You're my other half. That's how is it, that's how it usually feels."

He hears her gulp and she gasps out, "_Usually_?"

The way she looks at him tells him how badly she's craving honesty and nothing but.

"Yeah…_usually_," he says hesitantly, then clears himself to buy a second of time. "Because Jo, and I can't lie to you and there are other moments when…when I just take your hand, on instinct, and it feels _right_. Or when I wake up in the morning with your body all tucked into mine…" She makes a small noise he can't give a name to. "It's not as innocent as it used to be," he concludes. "And it feels better than it…than it should."

Joey offers up a small smile before she bows her head forward, hiding her expression. He sees a tear trip off her cheek and fall onto her hands, which are clenched together, and his chest aches. He wants to touch her, to hug her, but he knows that he shouldn't. He can't be the one to provide comfort for the damage he's doing.

"I never wanted us to be this complicated, Jo. I just…I always thought…we'd end up how we were supposed to. I never thought we'd have to work for it."

"But what is _it_?" she demands desperately, pushing her hair out of her face. "What are _we_? I've been wondering about it, Dawson, for longer than you have, and I can't take it anymore. I want…I want you to define us, okay? Because I have so much going on in my head and my heart and I need to know what's acceptable."

"It _all_ is," he attempts to soothe her.

"No, it's not!" she cries. "I _need_ to know. Because whatever we're going to be, I don't want to ruin it, I _can't_. You're all I have."

"That's not true," he insists as a wave of shock washes over him.

Joey shakes her head and he so full of pain on her behalf that he feels like he might break. "Whatever way you care about me, Dawson, you're the only one who does."

He reaches out and sweeps her into a tight hug, unable to resist any longer. She clings to him, balling his shirt up in her small fists. He holds her patiently while a couple dry sobs escape her lips, rubbing her back and burying his face in her hair, pressing the smallest of kisses to the crown of her head. "That's not true," he repeats, his lips brushing her skin. "You have so many people that care about you, and they're all lucky to have you caring back."

She makes a small sound of agreement and buries a little further into his embrace. He closes his eyes as he feels his heart beat against hers, the cadence of their respective rhythms completely in sync. He'd be willing to bet that they've always been the way, hearts thumping at the same moment, fuelling the organ associated with loves, pushing blood through their veins at the exact same rate.

She takes a deep breath, pulling herself together, and he knows it's to let go, even if he doesn't necessarily want to. He brushes her hair off of her tearstained cheeks as they pull apart. They stretch out fully, heads resting against the pillows, at least a foot of space between them as if they don't trust themselves with physical contact.

Joey sniffles and says, "I'm tired." In more ways than one; he understands the subtext.

"I'm sorry," he finally replies, finishing off the conversation the same way it began. "But I can't tell you what we are, because we're…you're everything to me, Joey. You're my _everything_. It's all-encompassing, our relationship, and it feels like it can never end because it's so…so perfect and complete, so permanent and…destined. You are a million and one things and in different ways…I love you for each."

After a long moment, the longest pause of the evening, she stares hard at the ceiling and says, "I love you, too." There's yet another pause as she swallows around the lump in her throat before carrying on. "And, God, Dawson…what you just said to me…those are words a girl dreams of hearing from the boy she loves. _You're everything_ ranks right up there with _you're the best thing that's ever happened to me_ or _you complete me_. But to me…for me…" She shakes her head, tangled brown locks growing static-y against the pillow. "I don't want to be your everything. I want you to chose a side."

She looks over at him. A thousand ways he's seen Joey Potter look at him, but never quite so deeply. "I love you, but in _one_ way," she whispers, an almost-broken heart making each word hitch sharply in her throat. "And maybe on some level I've always known what way. And maybe you have, too."

She's called him on it, and he can only smile slightly, unable to admit it, not just yet. "So that leaves us…"

She shrugs, trying to appear unaffected and nestling into the blankets. "Back at the beginning?"

"You were everything to me at the beginning, too, just like you are now. The beginning the end and everywhere in between."

"All-encompassing," she whispers with a private smirk on her lips. "We've been sleeping in this bed since the beginning," she admits, her words carrying a significant confession. "And I've always kind of thought that that's where we'd be in the end."

He's had trillions moments with her. Thousands, maybe even millions, of those have been crossroads, chances for everything to go another way, moments at which his life could be altered. But this is _it_, this is the real possibility, this is the decision, this is _the one_.

Just like she is.

His hand finds hers under the blankets like it used to when they were little and the thunderstorms made her cry, or right after her mom's death when she'd start crying in the smallest, darkest hours of the morning. He breathes in and out deeply before he dives off the deep end into the rest of his life: "I think that's a safe assumption to make."

The moon glints off her teeth when she grins. It's the kind of smile she's always reserved especially for him, completely unguarded and totally full of love.

He wonders why he hasn't seen that this was the side he was meant to choose all along. And then he thinks that, maybe, he has.


End file.
